As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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